


A Breath of Blighted Air

by Chronomancer



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair is a overprotective brother, Cultural Differences, Mentions of Companions - Freeform, Multi, Sads all around, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronomancer/pseuds/Chronomancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles. All of the Drabbles. Happy Drabbles, Sad Drabbles, Smutty Drabbles, Really Sad Drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zevran/F!Warden- The Urn of Sacred Ashes Bullshit.

Only Zevran notices it at first. The pinch in her eyes, the constant gritting of her teeth as they make their way back to Arl Eamon’s castle.  Of course, she talks on the way to Alistair as he rambles on about the ailing arl and how impossible and wonderful it was to actually _see_ the Urn of Sacred Ashes, that he was so happy that they had not tainted them. She nods in responses and says a few words. The Grey Warden has never been talkative, but this certain silence was not because of her limited grasp of Human culture or of the bigger words Morrigan loved using. This is a silence Zevran knows all too well. He would bet the pair of gloves Lyna had given him that it was self-imposed, her mind elsewhere.

So Zevran waits until they camp at the base of the mountain. Waits and waits until Morrigan and Leliana and Sten and Wynne and all of them are in their tents to approach her. She’s still sitting by the fire, staring with unblinking eyes at the base.

“May I sit, my Grey Warden?” He asks, seating himself anyways. The Dalish makes a sound in the back of her throat and he takes it as a yes. He stares into the flames also, recalling Leliana’s hushed tales of Andraste and her fiery death. But, he watches her out of the corner of his eye. The tattoos on her face look ethereal and intriguing, their original red almost demonic.

She catches him finally, and smiles so bitterly he imagines it tastes worse than Deathroot.

“The markings, we earn.” Her voice is hoarse and a mere whisper, but continues on. “These were for being the best scout of our clan. For killing shem that saw us and tried for violence.” Her tone hardens to steel at the end, and her bright eyes turn upwards.

“Ah, but they saw your beauty at the end, no? That cannot be too bad of a death.” He jokes to lighten the mood, only to chastise himself as he hears a light sniffle from his companion. He grimaced to himself and stares at her hands, wringing them in nervousness.

“Do you know why I am a Warden, Zevran? Has Wynne told everyone?” She wonders quietly, peering at the starts.

Zevran finds himself confused, now scrambling his memories for any conversation. “No.” He admits. “I am curious though. Were you Conscripted?”

She snorts, picking up the branch they were using to tend to the fire with and pokes the wood away from the center.

“My friend _\- my brother_ \- and I were scouting. Found some ruins after killing a few shem too close to camp. I convinced him to follow me, what a mistake. We found this cursed mirror…” She trails off, wiping at her eyes furiously with her palms. Zevran watches her with intensity, watching the words being spit out by the Warden, someone who gives coin to the beggars, who never said a word unless asked to, who put up with all their bickering  and fighting and cooked for them.

“This mirror. Tamlen…touched it.” She takes a series of shallow breaths, looking at Zevran now. Her eyes are wide and panicked but glossy, like reliving a memory. His hands tighten on themselves, creating little half-moons in the flesh.

“He _touched_ the blasted thing. I let him! Then, there was a flash of light and Duncan says he found _me_ buthewas ** _missing_ ** we went back to look but oh _gods-“_

And she blots upright but almost falls over in the process, scrambling on the hard ground before propping herself up, startling _him_ out of all people and looks into his eyes, piercing and holding him there, chest heaving. She rubs goose-bumps on her arms as Zevran stands a little away from her. He steps cautiously to her, holding out his hands. She looks wild, white blonde hair in disarray and healing cuts just now fading to scars. Her nostrils flare and his body tightens in response.

She is wild still. He sees where people made the tales of wild, primal elves living in treetops and feasting on human flesh.

She sees him, really looks at him and when he looks back, he sees something in her eyes _die._ Not hope, not anger, but something right after that hardens. Her eyes no longer show rhyming trees or hidden waterfalls or sun filtering through the trees, but he sees Ironbark and magical campsites.

So he can’t help it when he steps toward her and crushes her against his arms. She is only a little shorter than him and _thin when did she get so **thin**. _

Lyna freezes, chokes, and then buries her head in the curve of his shoulder. He closes his eyes at the sudden intimacy. The Warden is touchy, patting a hand on shoulders or helping with new armor, applying poultices with ease without blushing. But this- this is her flush against his body in thin leather armor.

Her crying isn’t loud or messy by any standards, but with himself so close he can hear the rapid inhaling and feel it in his bones the tensing of her own body as she bites back the sounds. The wetness on his chest is the only sign- anyone looking would see two lovers, trusting friends.

“You did not fail him, if that is what you are thinking.” He murmurs. This comforting, he knows well. The Warden stills again, and pulls away enough for him to see the side of her face as she turns toward the fire. Lyna wipes her nose on her sleeve and dries the last few tears from her face.

“As a Warden, I cannot be Dalish.” She recites from someone Zevran can only guess, side-eyeing him. “But we all here have lost something.” He thinks that now that she is herself, she will step away and return to her tent, but is surprised when she cups his face with a hand.

“I remember you telling me about your mother. You are Dalish but not. If this is how you felt, and more so to you for your lack of memory - I…have a new respect for you.” The words stumble out her dainty little mouth and Zevran has to avert his eyes before he does something unwanted to those lips.

He watches those lips twitch and curl on one side to smile. It is a self-depreciating smile but one nonetheless.

When Lyna moves her other hand to cradle his face, his heart pangs. Of course- dear Maker, she is pretty and how he would love to show that body a nice time- but oh, his _heart._

She kisses his goodnight and moves to the edge of camp for her watch. Zevran goes to his tent- finally. His lips tingle and his body is aching, but he sleeps soundly.

And when the Archdemon is dead and gone, and She is alive, they have Zathrian marry them on the battlefield. They say goodbye to everyone and start to Orlais. 


	2. Caves (And why Morrigan is loved)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyna hates spiders. It's a thing she's never been able to shake off.  
> And Zevran needs to cool it with the seduction.

The merry band is currently in the forest. Not the Dalish forests Lyna knows but stranger, quieter woods that smell like dust and mist. Everyone feels it- from Sten’s murmuring to Alistair’s less muffled complaining, only Wynne and Morrigan can glance at their leader and pinpoint the center of unease.

“These trees are cursed.” Morrigan states without preamble, catching Zevran’s attention from the back of the group.  “It feels like the Wilds, where the powerful hide from the men with illusions of power.”  The last of course, is aimed at the Grey Warden with a sneer only she can produce. Morrigan’s necklace throws off amber light that fits in well with the dying light above.

“Morrigan.”, Comes the reproach from Lyna. “This is not the place for banter.” She can’t find it in herself to be too disappointed in Morrgian, though.  The ground is just soft enough to sink in, and it wears them all down. Zevran and the mages have less difficulty, but Lyna sees the fatigue on the warriors and seeks a shelter. While she would love to just pick a crossroads to set camp in, Lyna can practically _sense_ the Dread Wolf on her trail as the sun starts to set on them. The sky is still saturated with water, and the light throws rainbows all around. It should be enchanting, but they’ve all had enough experience with that sort to know the darker magic behind the beauty.

“No, no, let her _continue._ I simply _love_ hearing Chasind stories about the barbarians in their wood castles.”  Alistair whispers loudly enough for her to hear, and she takes a glance behind her at the forest. Alistair has been different since Demerim, when they sought out his mother. It was a shame, but it only proves the Keeper’s tales about the shem and their children. Of course she had offered her companionship, but he disapproved of her relationship with Zevran. So picky- so lonely.  

_It would behoove him to realize he’s stuck with us._ The thought slips in and out before she knows if it’s hers or a memory. But it certainly is true. If Wynne and Morrigan can put aside such primal differences, then-

“I am right, am I not?”  Morrigan’s insistence is amusing and slightly annoying, because it’s so reminiscent of the children back at the clan.

Lyna decides to humor her, looking at the wall of rock on their right. Maybe they could find a cave to spend the night in, but finding one big enough for the lot of them will prove a challenge. “It is…possible. Old magic rests here, but if it wanted to kill us, we would have been dead by now.”  It’s a speech coming from her to this large of a group; out of the corner of her eye she can see a faint smile on Sten’s face. Bluntness was their common trait, rather than Alistair’s fumbling or Zevran’s flowery talk. The Dalish had use for such talk in poems, in love declarations, but it was lost on her from the very start.

Morrigan huffs and continues walking up the incline, a small ball of fire on her staff becoming brighter as the sky darkens faster and faster. Lyna hears Zevran walk beside her, his vallaslin shining from the mist. He gently touches her shoulder bringing her attention to him. “We need to rest soon, I think. Our grumpy Warden’s attitude may rub off on the rest of us.”  His eyes turn lewd at a thought, “ Perhaps if that happens, we can rub it off? May I volunteer myself of rub you off?”

Lyna stares blankly at her friend for a moment before smirking. “Would it not be better for me to ask _you_ that?”

She revels in the pleased expression that flits across his face. It’s taken her weeks to gain a sense of ‘humor’, as Zevran calls it, but it’s worth it. After she told him of Tamlem, he started to bring her fruits that she had never tried before, taught her how to make poisons for her arrows.  The last time they were in Denerim, Zevran had taken her to the market while the others wandered off to do their own things. Zevran- much to her surprise- bought her a little chest for her spot at camp. It was a beautiful thing with a key lock and a gold silk lining. For her ‘mementos’, as he put it. She had no doubts he would never break into it. So far, pretty rocks lined the bottom while bird feathers filled in the spaces. A small amulet that Tamlem had given to her once sat there also, although nowhere near as powerful as the ones they donned now.

In short, they had become close. Close enough that he starred in her nightmares, when she was too weak to save anyone and forced to watch them die. It was _his_ death that sent her flying awake.

Lyna shook her head to clear her head and looked around again. They finally matched the top of the cliff, the sun gone from the sky all but for a few vestiges of light left.

“No splitting up. We search for a cave.”  She barked out, ignoring the indignant squawk from Alistair. The chill seeped in slowly, leaving the warriors at the advantage. It would not be long now until the darker creatures woke up. Those, Lyna were not keen to fight. _Spiders._ Huge spiders, probably.

Why did everywhere they go have spiders? Poisonous spiders, behemoth spiders, agile spiders, it never ended.  A quick shudder ran over her and prickled the skin. One thing she enjoyed about being in the city.

Lyna led them now, vaulting herself up into the trees to search. Again with that unnatural stillness. There were no birds to alert, no squirrels to scatter. Just her, one foot and one hand on the tree and the other two out in the air. Not as peaceful as home, but it did the trick.

Not so far away there was an opening in a cliff side, to which she alerted the others down below of. Now that she thought about it, as she descended the tree into Zevran’s upstretched arms, she was looking forward to dinner. They had some dried meat from the last village’s market they walked through and some herbs from the area.

So they picked up the pace to the shelter, not minding the light rain that started to fall on them. It would make washing themselves a little easier if they could get there before the ground softened further. Alistair was in first, laughing loudly as he threw down his helmet.  Sten and Wynne were second, resting their weapons down gingerly. The cave, when Lyna and Zevran caught up, was just big enough for them and a small fire. Strangely, she couldn’t see the top of the caves ceiling.

“Morrigan.”

“My favorite Warden, was is it?”

Lyna pointed to the ceiling, putting down her quiver and longbow. “Should we not be able to see that?”

Morrigan sighed then snickered. “This better be a part of that Dalish curiosity. I’m not some Circle mage to make fireballs on command.” Both Wynne and Alistair send disparaging looks towards the three of them.

To that, Lyna gives Morrigan almost a startled look. How could she think-

“A jest, Warden.” Zevran laughed warmly, resting his hand on the small of her back. Oh. Alright. Morrigan gives that laugh again and sends a thin flame up. The ceiling is a few meters up, and clean of any creatures. Lyna thanks her and begins preparations for dinner.

 

 

A few hours later, Lyna takes first watch with Zevran. The fire plays with his hair, casts it into coppers and golds. It’s not the first time it’s entranced her, but each time gets more embarrassing than the last as it becomes obvious she likes him. Lyna wants to touch it, ball it into her hands and-

“You’re blushing, dear Warden.”, comes the bemused observation. She whips her face away and stares at the entrance. Her blush is so bad she can feel the vallaslin on her cheekbones. Creators take her now, this is downright _humiliating._ “What caught your eye? Me?” The self-confidence encourages the blush further, crawling down to her neck and up her ears. Zevran laughs quietly, sitting closer to her as to not wake their companions.

“Your hair. It…is gorgeous.” She uses one of Zevran’s words, unable to come up with one herself. It’s worth the slow, clumsy smile on his face. Lyna prefers that one over the practiced, perfect smile he gives the others. She looks down and fiddles with the leather skirt, rubbing the little metal indents. Fingers catch her chin and raise it to Zevran’s eye level. Her breath catches, and can only look and hope her eyes say what she can’t. His face is tight for a second, but softens as he sees something in her. His other hand comes up to cup her face and leans toward her.

Her heart is racing and her tongue feels like wool and she can’t believe this is happening. He’s slowing down, so close to her it makes her eyes cross to focus on him. He’s waiting for some sign, so she nods.

He kisses her. Just a brush on the lips at first before a second, firmer kiss. Her eyes meet his and the world slows down for a moment as she struggles to remember how to breathe. Zevran’s kissing her softy, kissing both lips separately before closing his eyes and focusing. She does the same, and when she opens her lips to kiss him back one of them makes a soft sound, his hands moving from her face to hugging her, pulling her across his lap.

Lyna forgets she’s in this cursed forest with darkspawn blood in her veins and surrounded by her friends. There’s just Zevran and her, touching skin and lips and tongues _oh Creators above._ She- Lyna knows it’s her- makes a hushed, quiet little moan. Zevran laughs into her mouth and moves down her neck, suddenly biting the flesh there. Oh, she could lose herself in this.

Except there’s a furry brush on her exposed leg that makes her pull away.

It’s a spider. Big enough to cover Alistair’s shield and more.

Lyna yelps loudly, flinging herself off Zevran’s lap and the others wake blindly, the closest being Morrigan who sends an ice spell to it. It catches some of Lyna’s knee but the adrenaline’s pumping through her and she’s tackled down by Zevran.

Everyone’s looking at the two of them with either confusion, or amusement. Surprisingly, it’s Wynne who saves her by taking the next watch.

Zevran and her pull their mats together and hold each other’s hands while they sleep, and no one mentions the ‘Cave Spider Incident’ until tomorrow.

 


	3. If you were the Keeper...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a Dalish thing.   
> Really, it is.

_There's a time for everything_ , Lyna muses, _I wonder if there would be a right time to raise a child after this. Or did this count as raising a clan?_

By Mythal, it's like being a _Keeper._ Maybe _this_ is how they feel. You blanch in horror to yourself-you is too young to be a _hahren_.

You are absolutely positive everyone else here is older than you by a few years. You slowly stop walking at the head of the group- today it's Sten, Leliana and Wynne. Leliana for pure selfishness- is she not beautiful to see weilding her bow?- Wynne had volunteered herself on the basis of 'Our Qunari friend will wander off only to be free of you both', and Sten...

Well, Sten is Sten and according to every else you are decidedly too curious for her own good.

Between Morrigan's quiet reminders on proper human etiquette, Alistair physically stepping in front of you to redirect attention, to Zevran distracting you whenever you're all in a bigger city like Denerim from the lusty stares of drunk men and women, you've got all the clan roles needed to gather an aravel or three for the winter migration.

 But Sten's particular way of caring for you is _to simply pick you up and sling you over his shoulder_. It's reminiscent of _papae_. _Papae_ who's arms were thicker than aspen trees and stronger than oak, who carried you back to your aravel when you were young. 

A chuckle threatens to overtake you. Sten as _papae_. your _papae_ would be a Qunari. It's too much to think about for too long without-

The laughter bubbles out, a touch wild from holding it in. Wynne stops beside you when she catches up and pats you on the back. Perhaps Wynne has just said something humorous? You still don't quite get the _shem_ humor but you laugh when necessary. Wait, did you- Sten as _papae_. You laugh again, bending over to hold your knees. If you are the Keeper and Sten is the _papae_ Wynne must be the _mamae_. Alistair is the concerned older brother, Morrigan is the First- Leliana is the one with Sylaise's teachings, Bodhan and Sandal are of June and-

Zevran. _Ma'lath_.

-he is the hunter boy your mamae warned you about.

"Lyna- what _are_ you laughing at? Are you alright?" Leliana is bursting with worry, bends down to talk to your face. It makes ithe laughing worse because with the image of her being the model of the Hearthkeeper- your clans' was an _attractive_ one- your face goes to flames and you fall to your knees.

"Sten- he _is_ -" You choke out, chortling almost painful on the ribs freshly healed from yesterday's darkspawn bout. Wynne pats your other shoulder, uses her staff to hold her as she leans toward you. "He- he is _papae_."

"I am what?" Sten demands more than asks, but that makes it worse when he sounds like a disappointed _papae_. Leliana sighs and stands back up to explain, amusement thick on the quirk of her brow. "The Dalish call their parents that- yes? Is that right?" She asks over her shoulder. Your laughter fades into uncontrollable snickering and you nod once. She continues- "She sees you as a father." Before he can say anything, you interrupt-

"And Wynne is the _mamae_." It takes only a split second for the bard to catch on to your mirth before she grins too, seeing it.

" And Wynne is the mother. You two would make a lovely couple. We should tell Morrigan." Wynne at least has the grace to humor them with a small smile.

"It is not the _worst_ thing to be called by our leader- but we should not tell her." Both of you sigh and stand proper, ready for scolding. But Wynne grins widely, a glint to her eyes. "We'll tell _Alistair_."

It turns out Alistair does not like that idea. But Barkspawn does.


End file.
